We did a little road trip to Canberra a few weeks ago - a family get together type trip; mum, dad, my brood and my sister and her beau. We were staying in some serviced apartments, and although I am a big fan of eating out, I am not a big fan of eating out with a 3 year old that is not yet restaurant-broken. That meant whipping up our own grub in the apartment, and that meant having to make a salad.
Last time we did this trip, I took a boot full of food things. This time, I swore we would travel light, so we didn't pack anything that would assist meal preparation. Which was fine - we were close to a great market, and the apartment had a good kitchen, so what could go wrong?
We couldn't find any bloody salad dressing - that's what went wrong. I tried every shop at the market, and it appeared that not one of them stocked dressings of any kind. Well, the health food shop stocked a thing that they called "dressing", but it had no oil in it. That's not salad dressing in my book. Only fucking hippies could fuck up salad dressing.
I did track some down eventually - it was the only bottle in the entire bloody market. I gasped at the price tag, but it was that or nothing, so I bought it.
It was a 200ml bottle of Tetsuya's salad dressing, at $12.95. If my maths is correct, that is pretty near to $65 a litre. Not bad going, if your name is Tetsuya.
After all that, it's a bloody marvelous dressing (as you'd expect for $65 a litre). I wonder if the economy tanks and everyone has to cut back on spending whether I will be the last person to buy a bottle of that for the next few years. If Rudd ever eats at Tetsuya's (and only people like him will be able to afford to do that), I hope that Tetsuya fronts him and says, "You bastard - no one buy my dressing anymore! I sell last bottle in Canberra! What type of fuckup shit is this country!?"
The best thing about it? I'm not running my car on it.
Tuesday, 21 October 2008
Monday, 20 October 2008
John Murphy MP flies to Queensland for free food
The office of John Murphy MP was today forced to deny rumours that Mr Murphy had used taxpayer funded flights for him and his wife in order to obtain free food from a church in Logan.
Although an official inquiry at Parliament House has determined that the stroganoff portion sizes are "adequate", Mr Murphy has continued to grumble about "not feeling full".
The Tribe of Judah church has noted that it is serving more food than ever, but an audit found that only three more people than usual were turning up for free meals.
Pastor Terry Walker noticed that two newcomers, obviously a couple, wearing sunglasses and hats pulled low over their faces, were returning for thirds, fourths and fifths. When he fronted the male and demanded an explanation, he was met with a barrage of complaints about small portion sizes and "poor value for money".
When Pastor Walker pointed out that it couldn't be "poor value for money" as the food was free, the unidentified male mumbled something about it being "fucking poor money for the taxpayer when they have to fly us up here from Canberra first class".
Jack the Wino, who has been stumbling drunkenly to the free nosh-up all year also claims to have noticed a 3rd person in the group.
"He weren't eatin' nothin' though. He'd put his feed into a plastic container like, and then pack it into a suitcase. I saw 'im tucking away at least 6 feeds", said Jack, holding up three tobacco stained fingers.
"He then lugged the suitcase over to a fancy white car, which was parked over there - or was it there?" Jack said in a state of some confusion, as he pointed first to an island in a fish pond, and then the middle of the Logan Expressway.
"The car had a driver an' all. He sat there all the time, in his uniform, wiv the engine runnin' and air con going full blast. Bill wen' over and asked him wot he was doin' there, and he said somethin' about 'studying the artifacts of climate change'?"
"As for the bloke nicking the grub, all I caught was 'is last name - something like 'advisor'". He didn't seem too happy to be here. I 'eard him mutter that if 'the press gets wind of this, we're fucked'. He gave me these little bottles of wine to shut me up - I never knew there was a brand of red called "Qantas first class complimentary drinks" They're a pathetically small size though - barely more than a mouthful. Someone orta complain about the size of these drink portions. A man couldn't get pissed in a week drinkin' these."
Bill, who was discovered fast asleep under a tree, said that he remonstrated with the woman about the amount of food she was taking.
"She just laughed at me and said something about, 'there's no baggage limit for us, dearie', before she went back for a ninth serving", which Bill illustrated by holding up four fingers and his left foot. His foot, although adorned by a well used sock, had three toes poking out of it.
As Bill blew his nose on his sock, Pastor Walker made a final statement.
"We've got a ton of food left over this week. Those three no-shows certainly put a lot away".
When questioned on the exact amount of food that the three interlopers had consumed, Pastor Walker re-iterated, "A ton. Before they showed up, we went through 50 tons a week. Once they started coming, it went up to 51 tons. We served 51 tons this week, and have exactly one ton left over.
"Anyone for a corned beef sandwich? Or some stroganoff?"
----------------
Conservatives can stop reading at this point.
-----------------
*All references to persons living or dead are entirely coincidental. That was supposed to be satire.
Although an official inquiry at Parliament House has determined that the stroganoff portion sizes are "adequate", Mr Murphy has continued to grumble about "not feeling full".
The Tribe of Judah church has noted that it is serving more food than ever, but an audit found that only three more people than usual were turning up for free meals.
Pastor Terry Walker noticed that two newcomers, obviously a couple, wearing sunglasses and hats pulled low over their faces, were returning for thirds, fourths and fifths. When he fronted the male and demanded an explanation, he was met with a barrage of complaints about small portion sizes and "poor value for money".
When Pastor Walker pointed out that it couldn't be "poor value for money" as the food was free, the unidentified male mumbled something about it being "fucking poor money for the taxpayer when they have to fly us up here from Canberra first class".
Jack the Wino, who has been stumbling drunkenly to the free nosh-up all year also claims to have noticed a 3rd person in the group.
"He weren't eatin' nothin' though. He'd put his feed into a plastic container like, and then pack it into a suitcase. I saw 'im tucking away at least 6 feeds", said Jack, holding up three tobacco stained fingers.
"He then lugged the suitcase over to a fancy white car, which was parked over there - or was it there?" Jack said in a state of some confusion, as he pointed first to an island in a fish pond, and then the middle of the Logan Expressway.
"The car had a driver an' all. He sat there all the time, in his uniform, wiv the engine runnin' and air con going full blast. Bill wen' over and asked him wot he was doin' there, and he said somethin' about 'studying the artifacts of climate change'?"
"As for the bloke nicking the grub, all I caught was 'is last name - something like 'advisor'". He didn't seem too happy to be here. I 'eard him mutter that if 'the press gets wind of this, we're fucked'. He gave me these little bottles of wine to shut me up - I never knew there was a brand of red called "Qantas first class complimentary drinks" They're a pathetically small size though - barely more than a mouthful. Someone orta complain about the size of these drink portions. A man couldn't get pissed in a week drinkin' these."
Bill, who was discovered fast asleep under a tree, said that he remonstrated with the woman about the amount of food she was taking.
"She just laughed at me and said something about, 'there's no baggage limit for us, dearie', before she went back for a ninth serving", which Bill illustrated by holding up four fingers and his left foot. His foot, although adorned by a well used sock, had three toes poking out of it.
As Bill blew his nose on his sock, Pastor Walker made a final statement.
"We've got a ton of food left over this week. Those three no-shows certainly put a lot away".
When questioned on the exact amount of food that the three interlopers had consumed, Pastor Walker re-iterated, "A ton. Before they showed up, we went through 50 tons a week. Once they started coming, it went up to 51 tons. We served 51 tons this week, and have exactly one ton left over.
"Anyone for a corned beef sandwich? Or some stroganoff?"
----------------
Conservatives can stop reading at this point.
-----------------
*All references to persons living or dead are entirely coincidental. That was supposed to be satire.
Sunday, 19 October 2008
Missing the Spring Cycle
I had to give the annual Spring Cycle a miss this year due to other commitments. What I didn't expect was that we'd get caught up in the Cycle on the way to that commitment.
Tens of thousands of cyclists partake in this event, which means clogged streets for most of the morning whilst the slow moving hordes wander past. Most intersections are manned by the Police, which keeps the aggro drivers in check. If you get caught up in the stream, your only option is to bumble along in first gear at about 15 km/h, as there are enough of them to completely fill the cycle lane and the car lane, and about half the lane on the other side of the road.
Having done it twice, I know that the best thing to do is to be at the starting line in North Sydney at or before 7am (which is the official start time). That way, you have a chance of getting out in front of the sluggish family and eldster groups, which allows you to complete the 50km route before the sun goes down. Whilst it's good to see so many diverse groups doing the ride, the speedster in me has to put up with the frustration of dawdling behind people who obviously cycle on a very casual basis, so they don't have the fitness and strength to power up the hills, or to get up to a good clip on the flat.
These are the sorts of people that shit motorists to tears when they take to the roads at peak hour on work days. I figure that if you are going to ride on a main road with lots of other traffic, you owe it to those motorists to not slow them down too much, which means being able to rip along at a good pace. If you can't hold 30 km/h on a flat road with no headwind, then you should go away and train somewhere else until you are capable of doing that. Otherwise, find another route.
I usually find that if I am giving it my all, and obviously doing my best to go as fast as humanly possible, then most motorists seem to respect that and they don't get upset at being delayed for a few seconds. However, I can understand them going berko when trapped behind some birkenstock wearing, hemp clad feral who is weaving from side to side as the try and balance several shopping bags of soy milk and vegetables on their handlebars - and all the while proceeding at the stately pace of a funeral carriage.
That said, I still wish I could have done the Cycle today. By now, I'd be home, having ridden to North Sydney, then to Homebush Bay, had a rest (after riding through the olympic torch fountain to cool down) and then home again; a trip of about 80km. Remember how the torch rose up around Cathy Freeman after she lit it at the Olympics? It's now mounted on a stand about 20 feet high, and it's a working fountain most of the time. It's great to ride under it on a hot day (so long as all your valuables are wrapped up in plastic bags).
Tens of thousands of cyclists partake in this event, which means clogged streets for most of the morning whilst the slow moving hordes wander past. Most intersections are manned by the Police, which keeps the aggro drivers in check. If you get caught up in the stream, your only option is to bumble along in first gear at about 15 km/h, as there are enough of them to completely fill the cycle lane and the car lane, and about half the lane on the other side of the road.
Having done it twice, I know that the best thing to do is to be at the starting line in North Sydney at or before 7am (which is the official start time). That way, you have a chance of getting out in front of the sluggish family and eldster groups, which allows you to complete the 50km route before the sun goes down. Whilst it's good to see so many diverse groups doing the ride, the speedster in me has to put up with the frustration of dawdling behind people who obviously cycle on a very casual basis, so they don't have the fitness and strength to power up the hills, or to get up to a good clip on the flat.
These are the sorts of people that shit motorists to tears when they take to the roads at peak hour on work days. I figure that if you are going to ride on a main road with lots of other traffic, you owe it to those motorists to not slow them down too much, which means being able to rip along at a good pace. If you can't hold 30 km/h on a flat road with no headwind, then you should go away and train somewhere else until you are capable of doing that. Otherwise, find another route.
I usually find that if I am giving it my all, and obviously doing my best to go as fast as humanly possible, then most motorists seem to respect that and they don't get upset at being delayed for a few seconds. However, I can understand them going berko when trapped behind some birkenstock wearing, hemp clad feral who is weaving from side to side as the try and balance several shopping bags of soy milk and vegetables on their handlebars - and all the while proceeding at the stately pace of a funeral carriage.
That said, I still wish I could have done the Cycle today. By now, I'd be home, having ridden to North Sydney, then to Homebush Bay, had a rest (after riding through the olympic torch fountain to cool down) and then home again; a trip of about 80km. Remember how the torch rose up around Cathy Freeman after she lit it at the Olympics? It's now mounted on a stand about 20 feet high, and it's a working fountain most of the time. It's great to ride under it on a hot day (so long as all your valuables are wrapped up in plastic bags).
Saturday, 18 October 2008
Where Paco leads, one must follow
Boy on a bike - supporting the freedom of voters to question candidates since 2007.
So, how did Costa bugger the railways?
In order to answer this question, we need to scroll back to the first days of the Greiner government.
Greiner inherited a right mess when he became Premier. The state finances were a disaster (as usual, when Labor gets the boot). He setup a Commission of Audit (the Curran Commission), with a remit to look into how the major enterprises of the state were functioning. The Commission looked at electricity, water, the railways and lots of other areas. It is at least 10 years since I last saw a copy of the report, but it went something like this:
State Rail will bankrupt NSW unless it is reformed.
That was about it.
At the time, the SRA had something like $4 billion of debt and was losing money hand over fist. It was borrowing more and more money to cover the losses, and it was clear that it would spiral out of control unless it was stopped. If it kept on losing money the way it was going, it would not be long before it totally wrecked the finances of the entire state.
Griener did a couple of things. He installed an accountant as the new SRA CEO - someone who understood money, rather than bits of track and trainsets. He corporatised the monster, with the aim of reducing political interference - because meddling by Ministers was a big cause of the disaster that the SRA had become. The SRA debt was also handed over to Treasury. All that kicked off a new era of reform.
That reform was of course about as popular with the unions as whaling is with Greenpeace.
The reforms continued after Labor won power in 1995. The railways were now a total mess (rather than an utter disaster), and the introduction of a national competition policy meant that a breakup of the SRA was required in order to provide a level playing field to private sector rail operators.
The SRA was split into four bits. The freight arm was privatised, and later swallowed by National Rail.
The ownership of the track was given to a new company called RAC (the Rail Access Corporation). RAC owned the track, and sold access to any operator that wanted to run a train - the same way that airports sell slots to any airline that wants to land a plane. RAC was also responsible for organising the maintenance of the track, which was generally viewed as a totally inefficient and wasteful operation when performed inhouse by the SRA.
The SRA had long neglected track maintenance, leading to the Granville disaster - the track essentially fell apart under a train, causing it to smack into a bridge, which then collapsed on top of the train.
RAC had this idea that they'd start by contracting 100% of the maintenance to another offshoot of SRA - Rail Services Australia, or RSA. Then, as time went by, they'd put packages of work out to tender, and RSA would compete for the work against private sector companies.
The unions hated that as well, since the RSA lost every tender by an enormous margin. RSA was so woefully inefficient, overstaffed and badly managed that it was at a tremendous cost disadvantage. It was also saddled with a workforce inherited from the SRA that would refuse to work in an iron lung, and equipment that would make a Romanian plumber from Goatfuckistan look like he worked for NASA.
The writing was clearly on the wall for RSA. It employed several thousand staff, all very blue collar, and their jobs were about to disappear up the spout. The unions twisted a lot of arms, and the Labor government caved in - the contracting out of rail maintenance work was halted.
That pretty much cut the rug out from under RAC, since half their job was to try and reduce the cost of rail maintenance. If it cost less to maintain the track, then access would be cheaper, which would make rail more competitive with trucks. Trains are much more fuel efficient than trucks, so the more freight they carry, the less oil is consumed, the less CO2 is produced and fewer noisy trucks go tearing down your street blah blah blah.
But the unions didn't see it that way. They were only concerned with protecting jobs that were seriously featherbedded.
Then RAC really found itself in the shit after the Glenbrook crash, although it really had nothing to do with the crash. RAC was used as a scapegoat by the government, and it was merged with RSA. The result of that merger, which was described as "a merger between and watermelon and a grape" was RIC - the Rail infrastructure Corp.
Althouth the two companies had both been spawned from SRA, but the time they merged again, they had radically different corporate cultures. RAC had eschewed the time-honoured SRA practice of only recruiting from within itself, and had instead brought in people from a wide range of backgrounds. It was lightyears away from your typical grey-cardigan inhabited public service slothpit. RSA had also undergone some reform, but it was over 10 times the size of RAC, and did not have the same freedom regarding whom it could hire. It was essentially lumped with a few thousand SRA rejects, and told to make the best of it.
RAC was dynamic, fast moving, open, informal, unlayered and unencumbered by bureaucratic policies and procedures. Shit happened at RAC.
RSA was hidebound, sluggish, insanely paranoid about security, strictly formal, layered like the tower of Babel and awash with paperwork, policies, procedures and auditors that were out to bust anyone that failed to account for all the pencils in the stationery cupboard. RSA was essentially shit.
What do you get when you merge a small, dynamic organisation with a big, sluggish one? Do you get a big, dynamic organisation?
No.
You get an ever bigger, more dysfunctional and more disillusioned organisation.
In the private sector, mergers are often quick and brutal. If there is one job and two people who can fill it, one person walks out the door very soon after the merger.
With the RAC-RSA merger, it took years to sort that out. The main effect of the merger was to inject an enormous vat of bad blood into an already sullen and angry organisation, along with a huge amount of organisation turmoil. Decision making and reform essentially came to a halt for a few years whilst the mess was sorted out. Instead of pushing further reform, enormous turf wars broke out as managers tried to protect whatever turf they had left, and people jockeyed for jobs. Hatred, jealousy, gossip, payback, undermining and backstabbing were the order of the day.
That was not Costa's fault.
What Costa though did was to take RIC and then merge it with SRA.
Now if you think that the RSA was the worst example of unreformed, sullen blobs of discontent, think again. It was nothing compared to the stinking corpse that the SRA had become. The kicker was that Costa decreed the merger just as RIC was emerging from the horror years of the last merger, and was actually getting its act together.
Imagine kicking a man in the balls.
He curls up on the floor for a while, puking and crying and thrashing around, and then as the pain recedes, he starts to uncurl and stand up - shakily at first - but eventually he is able to stand up straight and walk away.
Just as RIC started taking those first steps, along came Costa's boot again. The outcome of that merger was RailCorp, but the inside joke was to call it RailCorpse.
Costa thought that the merger would create efficiencies and reduce duplication and waste, and make it easier to drive reform, because there would be one company to deal with instead of two.
Instead, all he got was more inefficiency, triplication of functions, waste like you've never seen before and many of the reforms of earlier years thrown into reverse. RIC had at least moved into the 21st century when the merger occured on 1 Jan 2004. The SRA was still stuck back in the 1950's. The effect of the merger was to catapult RailCorp on 1 Jan 2004 back into about the year 1956.
I think it was at that point that Costa learned to never listen to the unions ever again. 1956 was a sweet time for the unions, but not such a great place for commuters and taxpayers to be.
Since 2004, RailCorp has been painfully dragged into about 1985. However, Rees came along the other day and turned it back into an authority, which will simply return it to the bad old days of ministerial interference, which is what got it into the shit in the first place. It is now stuck in about 1972, and probably going backwards at a rate of knots.
The railways. Going back to the future.
Greiner inherited a right mess when he became Premier. The state finances were a disaster (as usual, when Labor gets the boot). He setup a Commission of Audit (the Curran Commission), with a remit to look into how the major enterprises of the state were functioning. The Commission looked at electricity, water, the railways and lots of other areas. It is at least 10 years since I last saw a copy of the report, but it went something like this:
State Rail will bankrupt NSW unless it is reformed.
That was about it.
At the time, the SRA had something like $4 billion of debt and was losing money hand over fist. It was borrowing more and more money to cover the losses, and it was clear that it would spiral out of control unless it was stopped. If it kept on losing money the way it was going, it would not be long before it totally wrecked the finances of the entire state.
Griener did a couple of things. He installed an accountant as the new SRA CEO - someone who understood money, rather than bits of track and trainsets. He corporatised the monster, with the aim of reducing political interference - because meddling by Ministers was a big cause of the disaster that the SRA had become. The SRA debt was also handed over to Treasury. All that kicked off a new era of reform.
That reform was of course about as popular with the unions as whaling is with Greenpeace.
The reforms continued after Labor won power in 1995. The railways were now a total mess (rather than an utter disaster), and the introduction of a national competition policy meant that a breakup of the SRA was required in order to provide a level playing field to private sector rail operators.
The SRA was split into four bits. The freight arm was privatised, and later swallowed by National Rail.
The ownership of the track was given to a new company called RAC (the Rail Access Corporation). RAC owned the track, and sold access to any operator that wanted to run a train - the same way that airports sell slots to any airline that wants to land a plane. RAC was also responsible for organising the maintenance of the track, which was generally viewed as a totally inefficient and wasteful operation when performed inhouse by the SRA.
The SRA had long neglected track maintenance, leading to the Granville disaster - the track essentially fell apart under a train, causing it to smack into a bridge, which then collapsed on top of the train.
RAC had this idea that they'd start by contracting 100% of the maintenance to another offshoot of SRA - Rail Services Australia, or RSA. Then, as time went by, they'd put packages of work out to tender, and RSA would compete for the work against private sector companies.
The unions hated that as well, since the RSA lost every tender by an enormous margin. RSA was so woefully inefficient, overstaffed and badly managed that it was at a tremendous cost disadvantage. It was also saddled with a workforce inherited from the SRA that would refuse to work in an iron lung, and equipment that would make a Romanian plumber from Goatfuckistan look like he worked for NASA.
The writing was clearly on the wall for RSA. It employed several thousand staff, all very blue collar, and their jobs were about to disappear up the spout. The unions twisted a lot of arms, and the Labor government caved in - the contracting out of rail maintenance work was halted.
That pretty much cut the rug out from under RAC, since half their job was to try and reduce the cost of rail maintenance. If it cost less to maintain the track, then access would be cheaper, which would make rail more competitive with trucks. Trains are much more fuel efficient than trucks, so the more freight they carry, the less oil is consumed, the less CO2 is produced and fewer noisy trucks go tearing down your street blah blah blah.
But the unions didn't see it that way. They were only concerned with protecting jobs that were seriously featherbedded.
Then RAC really found itself in the shit after the Glenbrook crash, although it really had nothing to do with the crash. RAC was used as a scapegoat by the government, and it was merged with RSA. The result of that merger, which was described as "a merger between and watermelon and a grape" was RIC - the Rail infrastructure Corp.
Althouth the two companies had both been spawned from SRA, but the time they merged again, they had radically different corporate cultures. RAC had eschewed the time-honoured SRA practice of only recruiting from within itself, and had instead brought in people from a wide range of backgrounds. It was lightyears away from your typical grey-cardigan inhabited public service slothpit. RSA had also undergone some reform, but it was over 10 times the size of RAC, and did not have the same freedom regarding whom it could hire. It was essentially lumped with a few thousand SRA rejects, and told to make the best of it.
RAC was dynamic, fast moving, open, informal, unlayered and unencumbered by bureaucratic policies and procedures. Shit happened at RAC.
RSA was hidebound, sluggish, insanely paranoid about security, strictly formal, layered like the tower of Babel and awash with paperwork, policies, procedures and auditors that were out to bust anyone that failed to account for all the pencils in the stationery cupboard. RSA was essentially shit.
What do you get when you merge a small, dynamic organisation with a big, sluggish one? Do you get a big, dynamic organisation?
No.
You get an ever bigger, more dysfunctional and more disillusioned organisation.
In the private sector, mergers are often quick and brutal. If there is one job and two people who can fill it, one person walks out the door very soon after the merger.
With the RAC-RSA merger, it took years to sort that out. The main effect of the merger was to inject an enormous vat of bad blood into an already sullen and angry organisation, along with a huge amount of organisation turmoil. Decision making and reform essentially came to a halt for a few years whilst the mess was sorted out. Instead of pushing further reform, enormous turf wars broke out as managers tried to protect whatever turf they had left, and people jockeyed for jobs. Hatred, jealousy, gossip, payback, undermining and backstabbing were the order of the day.
That was not Costa's fault.
What Costa though did was to take RIC and then merge it with SRA.
Now if you think that the RSA was the worst example of unreformed, sullen blobs of discontent, think again. It was nothing compared to the stinking corpse that the SRA had become. The kicker was that Costa decreed the merger just as RIC was emerging from the horror years of the last merger, and was actually getting its act together.
Imagine kicking a man in the balls.
He curls up on the floor for a while, puking and crying and thrashing around, and then as the pain recedes, he starts to uncurl and stand up - shakily at first - but eventually he is able to stand up straight and walk away.
Just as RIC started taking those first steps, along came Costa's boot again. The outcome of that merger was RailCorp, but the inside joke was to call it RailCorpse.
Costa thought that the merger would create efficiencies and reduce duplication and waste, and make it easier to drive reform, because there would be one company to deal with instead of two.
Instead, all he got was more inefficiency, triplication of functions, waste like you've never seen before and many of the reforms of earlier years thrown into reverse. RIC had at least moved into the 21st century when the merger occured on 1 Jan 2004. The SRA was still stuck back in the 1950's. The effect of the merger was to catapult RailCorp on 1 Jan 2004 back into about the year 1956.
I think it was at that point that Costa learned to never listen to the unions ever again. 1956 was a sweet time for the unions, but not such a great place for commuters and taxpayers to be.
Since 2004, RailCorp has been painfully dragged into about 1985. However, Rees came along the other day and turned it back into an authority, which will simply return it to the bad old days of ministerial interference, which is what got it into the shit in the first place. It is now stuck in about 1972, and probably going backwards at a rate of knots.
The railways. Going back to the future.
Whether the weather is fine
The weather at the moment is quite delightful for riding - not too hot, not too cold, not too windy and infrequent rain. I went out for a two hour jaunt earlier in the week, and had barely broken into a sweat by the time I returned home. It was not an easy ride, but the light wind and the balmy weather conspired to keep me dry and comfortable - which is such a nice change. The arctic winter gloves and the leggings have gone into storage, but it is still too early in the season to get paranoid about applying sunscreen. I'm developing a lovely cocky's tan - brown forearms, legs and face and a pasty pale body.
There is something to be said for riding in the nude.
Tomorrow looks good again. I know that I won't be up early enough for a group ride - they leave at 6.15am from a location that's about 20 minutes from home, which would mean getting up at oh-dark-hundred. Not a chance of doing that - not when I have a 95% chance of having to get up several times over the next few hours to feed or change one of the kids. I'll just potter out the door mid-morning, or when Monkey is having his afternoon nap, and cruise around the place in my usual solo mode. I do enjoy the company of a group ride - I've never met an uninteresting cyclist - but I'm so used to riding on my own that I find going out with a group of 10 or 20 to be somewhat restrictive. I like to go where the spirit takes me, not where the ride leader directs me to go.
I generally have no idea of where I am going to go when I leave the house. I just hit the first intersection and see where the road takes me. When you spend the week furiously commuting up and down the same stretch of road, there is a lot to be said for just meandering in random ways, and not worrying about being at a certain place at a certain time.
There is something to be said for riding in the nude.
Tomorrow looks good again. I know that I won't be up early enough for a group ride - they leave at 6.15am from a location that's about 20 minutes from home, which would mean getting up at oh-dark-hundred. Not a chance of doing that - not when I have a 95% chance of having to get up several times over the next few hours to feed or change one of the kids. I'll just potter out the door mid-morning, or when Monkey is having his afternoon nap, and cruise around the place in my usual solo mode. I do enjoy the company of a group ride - I've never met an uninteresting cyclist - but I'm so used to riding on my own that I find going out with a group of 10 or 20 to be somewhat restrictive. I like to go where the spirit takes me, not where the ride leader directs me to go.
I generally have no idea of where I am going to go when I leave the house. I just hit the first intersection and see where the road takes me. When you spend the week furiously commuting up and down the same stretch of road, there is a lot to be said for just meandering in random ways, and not worrying about being at a certain place at a certain time.
Friday, 17 October 2008
Warrior Brothers
I have just finished Warrior Brothers, by Keith Fennell. It's subtitle is "My life in the Australian SAS", so you probably think you know what a lot of the book is like.
It is not a compendium of firefights, derring-do and flawlessly executed operations that saw Johnie Talib scurrying off over the horizon, having been soundly thrashed by our valorous and God-like soldiers. Which is why I liked it.
The book opens with Fennell and some others being tasked to nab some fish poachers down near Antarctica. The operation does not require the poacher's vessel to be stormed under gunfire, nor flashbangs to be tossed down corridors by troopers looking like they have just come from busting into the Iranian Embassy in London. And once they have the boat, they don't send it and the piratical crew to the bottom of the briney deep with a few well placed demolition charges.
Instead, they a stuck on the boat for a few weeks with an obese Naval slob who manages to lose his pistol, and they spend their time alternating between sleeping in a hold full of stinking fish guts and the intensely boring job of guarding the poachers. On the trip down to the Antarctic, the sailor in the bunk above him spends all his time either farting, masturbating or stepping on him. In the end, he has to ask the sailor to wank in the toilet, instead of just above his head.
Yes, it truly uncovers the terribly glamorous and exciting life of an SAS operative. I had a bloke in my section that had a wank everytime we did a gun piquet together. I don't think it's because I turned him on. We always seemed to draw the time of night when the body is at the lowest ebb, and that was his way of keeping awake. These are the sorts of things you have to put up with when you put on a uniform.
In places, the book needs a good editor, but that does not detract from the overall quality of the tome. I trust that after these comments, Fennell will kill his editor without leaving a mark by poking his thumb into the editor's earlobe. There were times when I stopped reading and had to go back over a paragraph a few times in order to make sense of it, but those times were rare. It is not one of those books were you get about 2/3 of the way through and go, "This book has run out of steam, and has nothing more to say - I'll give up now".
If anything, the book could do with a bit more detail in some areas - but that is just the detail junkie in me wanting to know more. Fennell might have put more detail into his early drafts, and had it excised by his editor on the grounds that, "This will bore the pants off the general reader". I disagree with that approach. Think about who buys books on steam engines. The only candidates are trainspotters in anoraks, and other wierdos. They want to know about the diameter of the wheel bearings in the throttle adjustment lever. They want to know about the temperature of the steam at bend four in pipe seven.
The same thing goes for books with a military flavour - these things will be read by buffers like me; people who already have a certain level of knowledge, and are looking for a book like this to add more to our existing set of knowledge. If you get an editor that doesn't know the difference between a safety pin on a grenade and a ring-pull on a beer can, then you end up with a book that is edited, or filleted, to such an extent that all the interesting stuff is no more.
The other way to think about this is to look at text books. Text books are graded in terms of the level of knowledge that the reader should have accumulated by the time they pickup a certain text. You don't start on a level 7 maths book until you have done levels 1 through 6. Fennell might have started with a book aimed at level 7, and had it dumbed down to level 2 by an editor seeking a "wider audience".
That rant apart, it's still a great read. I cracked through it in a few days. The last section, which covers his work in Banda Aceh after the tsunami, is incredible. The second last section, which covers his work as a private security contractor in Iraq, is a complete eye-opener. Given the lack of proper equipment and weapons that the private contractors had to deal with, plus the Walter Mitty types that conned their way into the security teams (and then fell to bits when the going got tough), it's amazing any of them survived. He dispels the myth that the contractors are a bunch of trigger-happy goons who shoot first and never both with any questions afterwards. After reading about several encounters in Iraq with less than friendly people, I was amazed at his forebearance - I would have brassed the bastards up.
I wish he had more to say about the Tampa. I have heard from other sources that there were some right bastards amongst the refugees - some very nasty sorts who should have been tossed over the side at the first opportunity, and never considered for entry into Australia. However, he deals with the Tampa in 2 or 3 pages. I think there is a lot about that episode that the Australian people have yet to hear, and this book doesn't add anything new unfortunately.
Fennell was also deployed to Afghanistan, and whilst he didn't get into any huge firefights, his descriptions of what they went through in order to establish observation posts is gripping. I was hoping that the chapter would end with, "And then we called in a massive B-52 strike and leveled the village", but it didn't, underscoring the frustrating nature of modern war and restrictive rules of engagement.
It was refreshing to read some good descriptions of what a patrol is really like. Most Australians probably think a patrol looks like this (the US Army blundering about somewhere in Vietnam). The fondness that our media have for sourcing footage from US sources, rather than going out and filming Australians in action, has given many a completely screwball impression as to how our military operates. Fennell knocks a lot of that on the head.
Fennell is now studying at Wollongong Uni. I wonder what his fellow students make of him. He's written a good book, full of good stuff. I doubt it will appeal to those looking for a wham-bang action-thriller, because it is not that sort of book. It's worth opening your wallet for this book.
It is not a compendium of firefights, derring-do and flawlessly executed operations that saw Johnie Talib scurrying off over the horizon, having been soundly thrashed by our valorous and God-like soldiers. Which is why I liked it.
The book opens with Fennell and some others being tasked to nab some fish poachers down near Antarctica. The operation does not require the poacher's vessel to be stormed under gunfire, nor flashbangs to be tossed down corridors by troopers looking like they have just come from busting into the Iranian Embassy in London. And once they have the boat, they don't send it and the piratical crew to the bottom of the briney deep with a few well placed demolition charges.
Instead, they a stuck on the boat for a few weeks with an obese Naval slob who manages to lose his pistol, and they spend their time alternating between sleeping in a hold full of stinking fish guts and the intensely boring job of guarding the poachers. On the trip down to the Antarctic, the sailor in the bunk above him spends all his time either farting, masturbating or stepping on him. In the end, he has to ask the sailor to wank in the toilet, instead of just above his head.
Yes, it truly uncovers the terribly glamorous and exciting life of an SAS operative. I had a bloke in my section that had a wank everytime we did a gun piquet together. I don't think it's because I turned him on. We always seemed to draw the time of night when the body is at the lowest ebb, and that was his way of keeping awake. These are the sorts of things you have to put up with when you put on a uniform.
In places, the book needs a good editor, but that does not detract from the overall quality of the tome. I trust that after these comments, Fennell will kill his editor without leaving a mark by poking his thumb into the editor's earlobe. There were times when I stopped reading and had to go back over a paragraph a few times in order to make sense of it, but those times were rare. It is not one of those books were you get about 2/3 of the way through and go, "This book has run out of steam, and has nothing more to say - I'll give up now".
If anything, the book could do with a bit more detail in some areas - but that is just the detail junkie in me wanting to know more. Fennell might have put more detail into his early drafts, and had it excised by his editor on the grounds that, "This will bore the pants off the general reader". I disagree with that approach. Think about who buys books on steam engines. The only candidates are trainspotters in anoraks, and other wierdos. They want to know about the diameter of the wheel bearings in the throttle adjustment lever. They want to know about the temperature of the steam at bend four in pipe seven.
The same thing goes for books with a military flavour - these things will be read by buffers like me; people who already have a certain level of knowledge, and are looking for a book like this to add more to our existing set of knowledge. If you get an editor that doesn't know the difference between a safety pin on a grenade and a ring-pull on a beer can, then you end up with a book that is edited, or filleted, to such an extent that all the interesting stuff is no more.
The other way to think about this is to look at text books. Text books are graded in terms of the level of knowledge that the reader should have accumulated by the time they pickup a certain text. You don't start on a level 7 maths book until you have done levels 1 through 6. Fennell might have started with a book aimed at level 7, and had it dumbed down to level 2 by an editor seeking a "wider audience".
That rant apart, it's still a great read. I cracked through it in a few days. The last section, which covers his work in Banda Aceh after the tsunami, is incredible. The second last section, which covers his work as a private security contractor in Iraq, is a complete eye-opener. Given the lack of proper equipment and weapons that the private contractors had to deal with, plus the Walter Mitty types that conned their way into the security teams (and then fell to bits when the going got tough), it's amazing any of them survived. He dispels the myth that the contractors are a bunch of trigger-happy goons who shoot first and never both with any questions afterwards. After reading about several encounters in Iraq with less than friendly people, I was amazed at his forebearance - I would have brassed the bastards up.
I wish he had more to say about the Tampa. I have heard from other sources that there were some right bastards amongst the refugees - some very nasty sorts who should have been tossed over the side at the first opportunity, and never considered for entry into Australia. However, he deals with the Tampa in 2 or 3 pages. I think there is a lot about that episode that the Australian people have yet to hear, and this book doesn't add anything new unfortunately.
Fennell was also deployed to Afghanistan, and whilst he didn't get into any huge firefights, his descriptions of what they went through in order to establish observation posts is gripping. I was hoping that the chapter would end with, "And then we called in a massive B-52 strike and leveled the village", but it didn't, underscoring the frustrating nature of modern war and restrictive rules of engagement.
It was refreshing to read some good descriptions of what a patrol is really like. Most Australians probably think a patrol looks like this (the US Army blundering about somewhere in Vietnam). The fondness that our media have for sourcing footage from US sources, rather than going out and filming Australians in action, has given many a completely screwball impression as to how our military operates. Fennell knocks a lot of that on the head.
Fennell is now studying at Wollongong Uni. I wonder what his fellow students make of him. He's written a good book, full of good stuff. I doubt it will appeal to those looking for a wham-bang action-thriller, because it is not that sort of book. It's worth opening your wallet for this book.
Thursday, 16 October 2008
Surefire way to run people off the road
I'm sure I was swerving all over the road on the way home today - mainly because I was pissing myself laughing listening to the Shire Network News.
Why has it taken me so long to start listening to these guys?
Why has it taken me so long to start listening to these guys?
Don't trust anyone under 30
For you oldies out there (like me), an interesting Counterpoint podcast on Literacy and the Internet.
For years, I have had to put up with youngsters (ie, those under 30) at work that can't write to save their lives.
This podcast does a good job of explaining why.
It also blows a hole in the whole idea that putting computers into schools is a good idea. I think it sucks.
For years, I have had to put up with youngsters (ie, those under 30) at work that can't write to save their lives.
This podcast does a good job of explaining why.
It also blows a hole in the whole idea that putting computers into schools is a good idea. I think it sucks.
Pocket vomit
I treated myself to a new pair of shorts yeterday - the old ones were at the stage where if I went commando, you'd be viewing the whole package. I am now the proud owner of the most expensive shorts that I have ever owned; a pair of $99 Columbia "trek through the leach infested hell of Peru" type shorts.
They are beautiful. Well cut, nice fit and soft. They are like chamois.
I'm never going back to cheap shorts.
I had been wearing them for 15 minutes when Number 3 required burping. I put him on my shoulder and was shortly thereafter rewarded with a very wet sounding burp. I checked my shoulder - nothing there - so I put him down and went about my business.
About a minute later, I put my hand in my pocket. It had vomit in it. Even though he was at shoulder level, he managed to chuck into a pocket at waist level.
Bizarre.
My brand new, soft as silk, very expensive, just 15 minutes old shorts. With a pocket full of puke.
This kid is going to be a demon when he gets his hands on a Yard Glass.
They are beautiful. Well cut, nice fit and soft. They are like chamois.
I'm never going back to cheap shorts.
I had been wearing them for 15 minutes when Number 3 required burping. I put him on my shoulder and was shortly thereafter rewarded with a very wet sounding burp. I checked my shoulder - nothing there - so I put him down and went about my business.
About a minute later, I put my hand in my pocket. It had vomit in it. Even though he was at shoulder level, he managed to chuck into a pocket at waist level.
Bizarre.
My brand new, soft as silk, very expensive, just 15 minutes old shorts. With a pocket full of puke.
This kid is going to be a demon when he gets his hands on a Yard Glass.
Wednesday, 15 October 2008
Did Costa really ruin our train system?
The SMH really has a love/hate relationship with the railways. One day, they'll be promoting a new rail line, and the next they'll be abusing CityRail for some infraction that has caught the eye of a reporter.
Today, they are blaming Costa for stuffing things up - how Costa drove public transport off the rails.
Mr Costa's renowned aversion to expensive rail projects was partly why public transport usage in Sydney had failed to keep pace with the growth in population.
I have my own views on how Costa buggered up the rail system, but it has nothing to do with failing to throw money at it. Tell me this - let's say you have a company that is a disaster from head to toe. It's got weak management, strong unions, creaking infrastructure, corruption, mismanagement, a terrible culture and it fucks up everything it touches. Do you:
a). Give it an enormous pile of money to piss away on capital works, or
b). Give it not one cent of taxpayers money until it proves it won't flush it all down some enormous turd-encrusted sewer
I'd opt for B. Clearly, the SMH would opt for A. I think Costa did the right thing - throwing good money after bad is not the way to run a government.
Today, they are blaming Costa for stuffing things up - how Costa drove public transport off the rails.
Mr Costa's renowned aversion to expensive rail projects was partly why public transport usage in Sydney had failed to keep pace with the growth in population.
I have my own views on how Costa buggered up the rail system, but it has nothing to do with failing to throw money at it. Tell me this - let's say you have a company that is a disaster from head to toe. It's got weak management, strong unions, creaking infrastructure, corruption, mismanagement, a terrible culture and it fucks up everything it touches. Do you:
a). Give it an enormous pile of money to piss away on capital works, or
b). Give it not one cent of taxpayers money until it proves it won't flush it all down some enormous turd-encrusted sewer
I'd opt for B. Clearly, the SMH would opt for A. I think Costa did the right thing - throwing good money after bad is not the way to run a government.
What political party does this alleged rapist belong to?
Read this article in the SMH and try and determine which political party this MP belongs to. He's accused of rape.
Since no direct mention of his affiliation is made in the article, you can probably guess which side of politics he hails from.
Since no direct mention of his affiliation is made in the article, you can probably guess which side of politics he hails from.
Tuesday, 14 October 2008
Lots more comments on "soldiers"
Some talking points about the podcast on soldiers. I first listened to this as a podcast in the car whilst driving to work, so obviously didn't have a chance to make notes. After reading a few comments at Sharpe's Sortie, I decided to listen to it again tonight and jot down a few things as I went.
I was intrigued by his description of watching slideshows of photos taken by soldiers who had returned from the Vietnam War, because I only took a camera on an exercise once, and it was not a big, clunking 35mm SLR type camera. For those of you born after the advent of digitial photography, cameras used to be big, bulky and heavy. They were not the sort of thing that your average infantryman would ever lug around. We used to cut down the handles of our toothbrushes to save weight. So just who was it that was taking all those photos? Probably pogues or tankers - someone who didn't have to carry all their crap on their back.
The other thing is that the sort of patrols that the infantry did in Vietnam tended to demand absolute noise discipline. By that, I mean that a platoon of 30 guys could pass you by without a sound. The idea of someone snapping a photo (and those SLR cameras made a lot of noise when the shutter flicked open) and then winding the film..... doesn't bear thinking about. I'd be interested to see what vets would have to say about that.
The modern digital camera is a completely different kettle of fish. Lightweight, silent and even available in black (infantry types are not fond of shiny things that reflect the suns rays and give away your position). I think the advent of the digital camera will enable us to see a much better picture of the "true" infantry life than we've ever seen before.
He then said that the two qualities that you need to be a good soldier are patience and toughness, and I'd agree with that. His reasoning is that most time is spent on tedious and repetitive tasks that require total concentration. I thought that was quite a good description of a lot of military life - a life where you need the patience to put up with "greatcoats on, greatcoats off", and the toughness to put up with the heat, the cold, the rain, the stress, the lack of sleep and the sheer physicality of so many tasks that can't be automated or mechanised.
Duffy then asked if those joining the military had a working class background. Duffy should read "Not as a duty only", which lists some of the many and varied characters that served in one battalion in WWII. Duffy should also look up the background of the author, "Jo" Gullett.
I guess that a lot of the guys that I served with were working class - I can't think of many that hailed from the elite, leafy Perth suburbs of Dalkeith and Peppermint Grove and Mosman Park. But I do get the total shits when people say that the children of the professional classes never serve in the military. I can only give you two examples of that being a crock of shit, because I only have two, but I'm sure there are many more.
My parents once owned a 1/3 share of a house with a Knight of the Realm (that is, a bloke you addressed as 'Sir'). He was quite upper crust - wealthy, a Federal Minister and later High Commissioner. We visited their house when they were living in London, and I went "wow". It was something else. One of his sons was commissioned into the British Army - and he chose to sign up with the Brits rather than us because he was more likely to see action with the poms at that time (Northern Ireland and all that). That's example number one.
The other one is me.
You can stop laughing now.
Seriously, I feel uncomfortable with the idea of blowing my own trumpet, but I was born into a family that was not working class. My paternal grandfather had totally working class beginnings, even down to helping found a Union. We were comfortable but not wealthy - Dad always wanted to own a Jag, but couldn't afford it. We lived a good life but had to do without the yacht, waterfront mansion and private jet. I had to put up with being born with a silver-plated spoon in my mouth.
The thing is though, although we weren't rolling in cash, Dad spent time at the centre of power in this country. And I mean right at the centre, and well-known enough to feature in newspaper cartoons on a regular basis (you know you've made it when cartoonists start to draw you). I couldn't go anywhere as a kid without people saying, "hey is your dad so-and-so?" (Funilly enough, J was chatting to a bloke just last week and he caught my name and said, "hey is his dad so-and-so?, which gives you some idea of the level of "celebrity" we had to put up with. It's over 20 years since Dad retired, and people still dredge that up).
And I joined the Army Reserves as a grunt. I thought about going Regular, but the period of my service was a generally peaceful one - if I had gone Regular, there wouldn't have been much to do. I thoroughly enjoyed my time in the infantry, even if it was only part time. One of the great things about it is that no one gives a fuck what your background is once you get out into the bush. Infantry work sorts out the strong from the weak, and respect has to be earned with sweat and blood. Out bush, patrolling under the blazing sun or the pissing rain, no one gives fuck if you come from a single drug-addled parent on welfare or whether you last name is Packer.
I've kept my mouth shut until now, but I reckon there have to be more out there like me - those that have come from the professional classes, yet have served in the military in one form or another. I find the whole concept of class and the military to be vaguely offensive, because the military is a great leveller. Your background counts for nothing. You get places based solely on your achievements (and I must say, I got nowhere, because I was rather lacking in drive at that age).
Whenever someone says that the elites or the upper classes or the whatever are not sending their sons into the military, my first reaction is to shut my mouth, because the last thing I want to do is sound like e a big-noter (which is also why this is done anonymously, and I've changed enough of the facts to try and stay that way). If I stood up and said, "Excuse me, my father is so-and-so, and I have spent my fair share of time being eaten alive by mosquitos in a night ambush position", I'd pretty much die of embarassment. I just apply the stiff upper lip and keep my trap shut. It's hard enough writing this, but I feel that it needs to be said.
I served alongside plenty of people who had come from the working class, but they had little intention of staying there. Most were studying at Uni, or running their own businesses. They were the go-getting types who were on the up and up. Say what you like about the military, but it is not for bludgers that like to sleep in.
Basically, I feel contempt for the people who even bring up this topic of class and the military, and it shows how little they know about the military and the type of people that serve in it. Duffy gets a free pass, because I don't think he was having a dig, but I've read plenty of nasty comments over the last few years about this topic, and it makes my blood boil. Next time you see some birkenstock wearing, hemp clad wierd beard with a bone through their nose making a snide comment about the Army being made up of illiterate bludgers that couldn't get a job in the real world, just remember that the likes of me will be sitting their, arms folded across their chest, smiling a smile that says, "You don't have a fucking clue, you craphead".
Also, when I hear someone mention the word "chickenhawk", I want to punch them in the face. If the timings had been different (ie, I had been born earlier), and if we had gone to war in the late 1970's (a big if, after Vietnam), then Dad would have been one of those people making the decision to go or not. He would have been sending me off to fight.
It didn't happen of course - I was born 10 years too late, and Dad retired too early for that to occur etc etc etc. But it's worth considering that it is possible for those who make the decisions to commit troops to have some skin in the game. I know there are others out there, because when I attended functions as a youngster with my parents, I'd meet all sorts of people from a similar background, and it turned out that a fair number of their kids were serving or had served in the military. They're out there - but they tend to keep their mouths shut. I for one don't want to get down in the gutter and argue with those ignorant, pig-headed hippies.
Why did I join? In the interview, one explanation is the "intense call to be a warrior - it does not strike everyone, but those that it does strike are compelled to have a go". I'd pay that. There is also the desire to "want to know if you are made of the same stuff as the ANZACS", and I'd pay that too. It's not like I grew up with a military background - the photo of Dad in his sailor's rig from WWII was hung in the basement store room, alongside the photo of his brother in his Army uniform (looking a lot chunkier than he did after he returned from New Guinea). But I saw those photos from time to time, and always wondered if I had the same stuff in me. And there is only one way to find out.
I'll post some more comments later.
I was intrigued by his description of watching slideshows of photos taken by soldiers who had returned from the Vietnam War, because I only took a camera on an exercise once, and it was not a big, clunking 35mm SLR type camera. For those of you born after the advent of digitial photography, cameras used to be big, bulky and heavy. They were not the sort of thing that your average infantryman would ever lug around. We used to cut down the handles of our toothbrushes to save weight. So just who was it that was taking all those photos? Probably pogues or tankers - someone who didn't have to carry all their crap on their back.
The other thing is that the sort of patrols that the infantry did in Vietnam tended to demand absolute noise discipline. By that, I mean that a platoon of 30 guys could pass you by without a sound. The idea of someone snapping a photo (and those SLR cameras made a lot of noise when the shutter flicked open) and then winding the film..... doesn't bear thinking about. I'd be interested to see what vets would have to say about that.
The modern digital camera is a completely different kettle of fish. Lightweight, silent and even available in black (infantry types are not fond of shiny things that reflect the suns rays and give away your position). I think the advent of the digital camera will enable us to see a much better picture of the "true" infantry life than we've ever seen before.
He then said that the two qualities that you need to be a good soldier are patience and toughness, and I'd agree with that. His reasoning is that most time is spent on tedious and repetitive tasks that require total concentration. I thought that was quite a good description of a lot of military life - a life where you need the patience to put up with "greatcoats on, greatcoats off", and the toughness to put up with the heat, the cold, the rain, the stress, the lack of sleep and the sheer physicality of so many tasks that can't be automated or mechanised.
Duffy then asked if those joining the military had a working class background. Duffy should read "Not as a duty only", which lists some of the many and varied characters that served in one battalion in WWII. Duffy should also look up the background of the author, "Jo" Gullett.
I guess that a lot of the guys that I served with were working class - I can't think of many that hailed from the elite, leafy Perth suburbs of Dalkeith and Peppermint Grove and Mosman Park. But I do get the total shits when people say that the children of the professional classes never serve in the military. I can only give you two examples of that being a crock of shit, because I only have two, but I'm sure there are many more.
My parents once owned a 1/3 share of a house with a Knight of the Realm (that is, a bloke you addressed as 'Sir'). He was quite upper crust - wealthy, a Federal Minister and later High Commissioner. We visited their house when they were living in London, and I went "wow". It was something else. One of his sons was commissioned into the British Army - and he chose to sign up with the Brits rather than us because he was more likely to see action with the poms at that time (Northern Ireland and all that). That's example number one.
The other one is me.
You can stop laughing now.
Seriously, I feel uncomfortable with the idea of blowing my own trumpet, but I was born into a family that was not working class. My paternal grandfather had totally working class beginnings, even down to helping found a Union. We were comfortable but not wealthy - Dad always wanted to own a Jag, but couldn't afford it. We lived a good life but had to do without the yacht, waterfront mansion and private jet. I had to put up with being born with a silver-plated spoon in my mouth.
The thing is though, although we weren't rolling in cash, Dad spent time at the centre of power in this country. And I mean right at the centre, and well-known enough to feature in newspaper cartoons on a regular basis (you know you've made it when cartoonists start to draw you). I couldn't go anywhere as a kid without people saying, "hey is your dad so-and-so?" (Funilly enough, J was chatting to a bloke just last week and he caught my name and said, "hey is his dad so-and-so?, which gives you some idea of the level of "celebrity" we had to put up with. It's over 20 years since Dad retired, and people still dredge that up).
And I joined the Army Reserves as a grunt. I thought about going Regular, but the period of my service was a generally peaceful one - if I had gone Regular, there wouldn't have been much to do. I thoroughly enjoyed my time in the infantry, even if it was only part time. One of the great things about it is that no one gives a fuck what your background is once you get out into the bush. Infantry work sorts out the strong from the weak, and respect has to be earned with sweat and blood. Out bush, patrolling under the blazing sun or the pissing rain, no one gives fuck if you come from a single drug-addled parent on welfare or whether you last name is Packer.
I've kept my mouth shut until now, but I reckon there have to be more out there like me - those that have come from the professional classes, yet have served in the military in one form or another. I find the whole concept of class and the military to be vaguely offensive, because the military is a great leveller. Your background counts for nothing. You get places based solely on your achievements (and I must say, I got nowhere, because I was rather lacking in drive at that age).
Whenever someone says that the elites or the upper classes or the whatever are not sending their sons into the military, my first reaction is to shut my mouth, because the last thing I want to do is sound like e a big-noter (which is also why this is done anonymously, and I've changed enough of the facts to try and stay that way). If I stood up and said, "Excuse me, my father is so-and-so, and I have spent my fair share of time being eaten alive by mosquitos in a night ambush position", I'd pretty much die of embarassment. I just apply the stiff upper lip and keep my trap shut. It's hard enough writing this, but I feel that it needs to be said.
I served alongside plenty of people who had come from the working class, but they had little intention of staying there. Most were studying at Uni, or running their own businesses. They were the go-getting types who were on the up and up. Say what you like about the military, but it is not for bludgers that like to sleep in.
Basically, I feel contempt for the people who even bring up this topic of class and the military, and it shows how little they know about the military and the type of people that serve in it. Duffy gets a free pass, because I don't think he was having a dig, but I've read plenty of nasty comments over the last few years about this topic, and it makes my blood boil. Next time you see some birkenstock wearing, hemp clad wierd beard with a bone through their nose making a snide comment about the Army being made up of illiterate bludgers that couldn't get a job in the real world, just remember that the likes of me will be sitting their, arms folded across their chest, smiling a smile that says, "You don't have a fucking clue, you craphead".
Also, when I hear someone mention the word "chickenhawk", I want to punch them in the face. If the timings had been different (ie, I had been born earlier), and if we had gone to war in the late 1970's (a big if, after Vietnam), then Dad would have been one of those people making the decision to go or not. He would have been sending me off to fight.
It didn't happen of course - I was born 10 years too late, and Dad retired too early for that to occur etc etc etc. But it's worth considering that it is possible for those who make the decisions to commit troops to have some skin in the game. I know there are others out there, because when I attended functions as a youngster with my parents, I'd meet all sorts of people from a similar background, and it turned out that a fair number of their kids were serving or had served in the military. They're out there - but they tend to keep their mouths shut. I for one don't want to get down in the gutter and argue with those ignorant, pig-headed hippies.
Why did I join? In the interview, one explanation is the "intense call to be a warrior - it does not strike everyone, but those that it does strike are compelled to have a go". I'd pay that. There is also the desire to "want to know if you are made of the same stuff as the ANZACS", and I'd pay that too. It's not like I grew up with a military background - the photo of Dad in his sailor's rig from WWII was hung in the basement store room, alongside the photo of his brother in his Army uniform (looking a lot chunkier than he did after he returned from New Guinea). But I saw those photos from time to time, and always wondered if I had the same stuff in me. And there is only one way to find out.
I'll post some more comments later.
Monday, 13 October 2008
Brother & sister zapped with taser
When I read stories like this, I have only one question to ask:
Are the Police able to dial up the intensity of the Taser to make it more painful? Does it go to 11?
Does the policy manual allow you to keep Tasering a dickhead until the poo themselves? Are you allowed to remove the electrodes from their chest and jab them into their testicles before having another go?
If those were the rules, I doubt anyone would continue to resist arrest after a Police Officer unholstered their Taser and pointed it at the suspect.
Are the Police able to dial up the intensity of the Taser to make it more painful? Does it go to 11?
Does the policy manual allow you to keep Tasering a dickhead until the poo themselves? Are you allowed to remove the electrodes from their chest and jab them into their testicles before having another go?
If those were the rules, I doubt anyone would continue to resist arrest after a Police Officer unholstered their Taser and pointed it at the suspect.
Sunday, 12 October 2008
V8 super car racing at Homebush
What has this photo got to do with V8 racing?
I've been in two minds until recently about the idea of holding V8 super car races at Homebush. On the one hand, I like to cycle around Homebush - that is where I took this photo yesterday. On the other hand, I like motor racing, and I might go and see it if it's held at Homebush, since it will be easy and convenient to get to. I could even cycle out there to see the races!
My mailbox has been bombarded for the last few weeks with a lot of anti-V8 emails. The opposition to it, as usual, comes from the Greens and other usual suspects. For that reason alone, I should have been for it from the start.
From what I have read, the only impact on me will be that I won't be able to ride in some parts of the park for a few weeks. Well boo-hoo. I'll only be able to use if for 49 out of 52 weeks. Losing 3 weeks is not the end of the world - I lose more weeks of riding to wind, rain, hail, illness, extreme heat and peak hour traffic than I will to the V8 racing.
By the way, the bloke in the above photo was about 70 years old, and I had a devil of a time catching him. Just goes to show what a few months of driving to work will do to you.
I've been in two minds until recently about the idea of holding V8 super car races at Homebush. On the one hand, I like to cycle around Homebush - that is where I took this photo yesterday. On the other hand, I like motor racing, and I might go and see it if it's held at Homebush, since it will be easy and convenient to get to. I could even cycle out there to see the races!
My mailbox has been bombarded for the last few weeks with a lot of anti-V8 emails. The opposition to it, as usual, comes from the Greens and other usual suspects. For that reason alone, I should have been for it from the start.
From what I have read, the only impact on me will be that I won't be able to ride in some parts of the park for a few weeks. Well boo-hoo. I'll only be able to use if for 49 out of 52 weeks. Losing 3 weeks is not the end of the world - I lose more weeks of riding to wind, rain, hail, illness, extreme heat and peak hour traffic than I will to the V8 racing.
By the way, the bloke in the above photo was about 70 years old, and I had a devil of a time catching him. Just goes to show what a few months of driving to work will do to you.
Saturday, 11 October 2008
Is this the first crap of Christmas?
Photographed today, 11 October.
2.5 months to go until Christmas Day.
A Christmas stocking of lollies from the Natural Confectionary Company.
I love the natural lemonade these guys make, but jeez fellas, do you really need to be putting this crap out this early? Can't you wait another month or so?
2.5 months to go until Christmas Day.
A Christmas stocking of lollies from the Natural Confectionary Company.
I love the natural lemonade these guys make, but jeez fellas, do you really need to be putting this crap out this early? Can't you wait another month or so?
People who shit me, volume 87
Check out fuck-face here in his Mercedes CL 500. Redbook tells me that this thing costs $155,000 new.
Why is the driver of this machine a complete cock brain?
Because he is talking on his mobile phone.
It just goes to show that money is no indicator of intelligence or common sense. If I was a cop, I'd arrest the driver on suspicion of car theft. If the driver complained, I'd tell him that the car must be stolen, since if you can afford to pay $155,000 for a car, you can afford a fucking car kit. What a knob-throttling, ball choking wanker.
The above photo shows him still yap-yap-yapping at the next set of lights. Very important people in Mercedes must have a lot to talk about.
Check out the very cool car right in front of me - a Mustang perhaps? It didn't have a name on it. Personally, I find it to be a much more desireable car than the Merc. Sitting behind it at the lights on the bike was not much fun though - engines of that era pump out all sorts of crap, and it was pumping it right into my face. That apart, I like it.
Why is the driver of this machine a complete cock brain?
Because he is talking on his mobile phone.
It just goes to show that money is no indicator of intelligence or common sense. If I was a cop, I'd arrest the driver on suspicion of car theft. If the driver complained, I'd tell him that the car must be stolen, since if you can afford to pay $155,000 for a car, you can afford a fucking car kit. What a knob-throttling, ball choking wanker.
The above photo shows him still yap-yap-yapping at the next set of lights. Very important people in Mercedes must have a lot to talk about.
Check out the very cool car right in front of me - a Mustang perhaps? It didn't have a name on it. Personally, I find it to be a much more desireable car than the Merc. Sitting behind it at the lights on the bike was not much fun though - engines of that era pump out all sorts of crap, and it was pumping it right into my face. That apart, I like it.
No birds
Snapped on one of my walkabouts this week.
The nice thing about these fellows is that they don't swoop on cyclists as they ride past. I am getting all too used to the "clack" that a swooping magpie makes as its beak collides with the back of my helmet.
The nice thing about these fellows is that they don't swoop on cyclists as they ride past. I am getting all too used to the "clack" that a swooping magpie makes as its beak collides with the back of my helmet.
Sneaky bastards at the Economist
I decided a few months ago not to renew my subscription to The Economist. If you ask me, it has gone downhill in a big way since it started chasing circulation in a big way. Quality has been sacrificed to quantity. Most of their reports on Australia have been laughable - if their reporting on Australia is that bad, then their reporting on the rest of the world must be suspect.
So I ignored all the subscription renewal bumf that came my way. It all went into the recycling. I must have thrown out half a wheelie bin full of subscription renewal enticements.
The addressing slip that arrives with each magazine also informs me that my sub runs out at the end of October.
Imagine my surprise today when I checked my credit card statement and found a charge for renewing my subscription - over 3 weeks before it expires! I didn't authorise a renewal, so I have written to them and asked for my money back - in full.
How on earth do they get away with this shit? I assume that many of their subscribers are corporates, and they won't mind a charge of nearly $400 appearing on their statement unannounced. But I do mind, and I am not paying for it.
Fuckers. Cheeky, nasty fuckers. It's almost as bad as a Nigerian banking letter scam.
So I ignored all the subscription renewal bumf that came my way. It all went into the recycling. I must have thrown out half a wheelie bin full of subscription renewal enticements.
The addressing slip that arrives with each magazine also informs me that my sub runs out at the end of October.
Imagine my surprise today when I checked my credit card statement and found a charge for renewing my subscription - over 3 weeks before it expires! I didn't authorise a renewal, so I have written to them and asked for my money back - in full.
How on earth do they get away with this shit? I assume that many of their subscribers are corporates, and they won't mind a charge of nearly $400 appearing on their statement unannounced. But I do mind, and I am not paying for it.
Fuckers. Cheeky, nasty fuckers. It's almost as bad as a Nigerian banking letter scam.
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